


Make It Easy On Yourself

by PeturbingPrism



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack Treated Seriously, Explicit Language, Gen, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Other, Strangers to Lovers, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeturbingPrism/pseuds/PeturbingPrism
Summary: Prompt from the Facebook group "Scribbling Vaguely Downwards: Good Omens Fanfiction": "Anyone down to take Couples Counseling and see at what point the therapist realises we don't even know each other?"Aziraphale and Gabriel's relationship is on the rocks.  When Gabriel cancels last minute, a chance meeting with a certain devilish red-head changes his point of view.Crowley is a journalist who is trying to stop the end of the world. He meets an Angelic man one night and is instantly smitten. Problem is, for a journalist, he is very bad at communicating how be feels.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I've done it! I've finally fulfilled a promise I made, fandom-wise. 
> 
> Prompt from the Facebook group "Scribbling Vaguely Downwards: Good Omens Fanfiction": "Anyone down to take Couples Counseling and see at what point the therapist realises we don't even know each other?"
> 
> So, whilst Argumentum *will* be finished (Only 1 chapter to go), please have the start of some fluff. 
> 
> The title is taken from [Make It Easy On Yourself, covered famously by the Walker Brothers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZTS9H-l5qQ) I'd highly recommend it. Scott Walker has one of the most amazing voices of the twentieth century, both in terms of range and expression. And, oh God, those harmonies and the luscious strings...go listen, even if you hate old music.

Aziraphale had been sitting in an overheated, overcrowded, noisy pub when The Text Message came through. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and almost knew what it said before he clicked through. 

_ Sorry Sunshine, I have another late one at the office. Won't be home until after midnight. I'll pay you back for the session - G.  _

It was all Aziraphale could do to stop himself from slamming the phone against the table. Instead he finished the last of the wine in his glass, and slipped through the throng to the beer garden.

Outside he let out a huge sigh. His chest was aching, like his ribcage had swung open and his heart had fallen out. Great, he thought to himself, just great. He'd been fighting with Gabriel, begging him to go to relationship counseling for months, and now? He'd just texted at the last minute to cancel on him. Not even a call. Just a text.

Aziraphale turned away from the orange heat lamps, his throat feeling taut and sore. Did Gabriel even care about him any more? Aziraphale tortured himself with images of Gabriel “working late” at the Office, kissing the other man Aziraphale knew he was seeing, but didn't quite have proof of yet. 

Aziraphale didn't want to cry in front of strangers. But right now, he felt so broken inside he thought he might. He leaned against the wall and tried to pull himself together, but the more he tried to be sensible, the more he felt himself falling apart at the seams.

Gabriel didn't care about him. That much seemed clear. He didn't care about fixing their relationship. He was “late" at the office, probably with the man Aziraphale had smelt on Gabriel when he'd last convinced him to have sex with him. 

Aziraphale was brought out of his spiral when he heard a voice say, "Excuse me, do you have a light?"

Aziraphale looked around and saw a tall, red-headed man looking at him over a pair of expensive sunglasses. The glasses had slid down his nose, exposing bright, almost golden eyes. 

"Sure", Aziraphale murmured, distracted by how handsome the man was. He felt around in his coat pocket, unable to look away. 

The red-headed man pushed his sunglasses back up his slim, aquiline nose, with an expression of relief. "Left mine at home this morning," he explained with a sheepish grin, "I've been gasping all day."

Aziraphale passed the stranger the little silver lighter he kept in his coat pocket. The stranger took it gladly and sparked a light.

Aziraphale continued to stare, despite himself. Oh, this man was incredibly attractive. Slim, but not skeletal; rather he had a sort of serpentine sleekness about him. He was dressed very deliberately in black. Aziraphale thought of him as quite fashionably dressed, but as Aziraphale could charitably be called old-fashioned, he was pretty sure he wouldn't know. 

The stranger took a very long drag on his cigarette, exhaled dramatically, and flashed him an unexpectedly goofy smile.

"Thanks. I needed that. Want one?"

Aziraphale shook his head. 

The stranger looked a little disappointed, but took another drag on his cigarette. Aziraphale watched as his lips pursed together, and squirmed. 

"It's a crap pub, this," the stranger said, giving him an inscrutable look, "I only come here to meet up before gigs."

Aziraphale felt his stomach suddenly jolt with the reminder that he had been waiting for Gabriel to arrive until ten minutes ago. His neck burned like ice, and he felt like he could throw up. He kept his eyes on the floor as he replied, "Oh. Yes. I was meeting up with...a friend."

"So, err, what are you doing this evening?"

Aziraphale laughed bitterly. "Nothing fun, I'm afraid. I really should be…" his voice suddenly cracked painfully, ".. Heading home."

The stranger looked genuinely concerned. "You okay?"

Aziraphale felt terrified. Would this man suddenly change his tune if he knew he was homosexual? Aziraphale, through a fog of grief and panic, decided a version of the truth would do. "If you must know, I was meant to go to counseling with my partner, but… They… Can't make it."

"Oh, that's awful," the stranger said, "That must be so hard."

"It… it's alright."

"No, no it isn't. That's really shitty of them." The stranger paused and then, bashfully, he asked, "Partner, are they a boy or a girl?" He paused and then quickly added, "Or something else? Sorry, didn't mean to be so binary about that."

"Oh, no problem at all," Aziraphale said, feeling a little relieved as some of his panic dissipated. "They're a man."

"Oh. That's good." The stranger said, and then, turning almost as red as his hair said, "I mean, that's great, doesn't matter really, gender, but it's nice to meet another member of that gang if you know what I mean."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and laughed. "Another member of the gang? In all my years, I have never heard it called that."

"Part of the alphabet soup," the stranger added with a charmingly silly grin.

Aziraphale laughed again. "Now, that one I know. Still never heard someone say it out loud."

"Good thing you've met me, then." The sunglasses slid down the stranger’s nose again, and Aziraphale saw another flash of those golden irises. 

"Well, I will say you have cheered me up. But I must go home," Aziraphale said, a little sadly, "Lovely to meet you, though."

The stranger’s hand shot out, and grabbed Aziraphale's by the wrist. "Wait!" Aziraphale looked at the man, stunned. 

The stranger seemed to be searching for something, then said, "That counseling session? You haven't cancelled it yet, right?"

Aziraphale, hesitantly replied, "No, I haven't."

"We should go."

"What? But you're a stranger?"

"Well, yes, but seeing that your man has cancelled on you, why don't we go and just pretend to be a couple?"

"What? that's insane!"

"Exactly! The counsellor won't be expecting two complete strangers to go to therapy together. It'll be funny watching them trying to work out what's going on!"

"Haven't you got somewhere else to be this evening?"

"Well, I'm meant to be seeing my flatmate's friend's band, but to be honest I'm desperate to get out of it." 

"So instead of that, you'll go to relationship counseling with a stranger?" Aziraphale asked. 

"You don't understand. The band has one guy on kazoo and two people on ukuleles. Going to therapy with a man I've just met sounds amazing."

"Uh huh. Amazing."

The stranger nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly. It'll be interesting, at least."

"Well…" Aziraphale looked at the stranger, a man who was incredibly handsome and also clearly mad, begging to go to relationship counseling with him. He sighed and said, "All right, then."

The stranger did a little fist pump, and with an excited hiss, said, "Yessss! You won't regret this!"

"Now, before we go, I do want to ask one thing."

"Sure."

"What's your name?"

The stranger held his hand out to shake. "I'm Anthony J Crowley. Pleasure to meet you."

Aziraphale took the hand and shook it. "Pleasure to meet you, Anthony J Crowley. What does the 'J' stand for?"

"Dunno. It's just a Jay, really."

Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh again. 

As they left the beer garden, it started to rain. Without a single word, Aziraphale reached into his bag, and produced a light brown tartan umbrella, and held it over both of them. 

Crowley huddled underneath, not a word needing to be said. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOAR WORDS (This chapter, they see a therapist)

_ Twenty minutes earlier. _

"Crowley?" Earth to Crowley?" Beelzebub snapped their fingers in front of Crowley's face, pulling him out of his daydream. 

"Oh, sorry Beeze," he said, looking guilt.

"You a bit distracted today?" asked Dagon, with a shark-like grin.

"No, you're just boring," he replied.

"So you haven't been staring at that guy in the old-timey suit for the last twenty minutes?"

Crowley felt the embarrassment on his face. "I feel like I recognise him from somewhere."

"Oh really? Where?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be staring at him, would I?" Crowley replied with an eye-roll. 

"Ugh, Crowley, you're just ogling him, and it's okay to admit it," Dagon replied, pulling his face towards hers by the chin.

Crowley pushed her hands away and said, "So what if I was?"

"HAH! I knew it!" Dagon replied smugly.

"I do think I've seen him somewhere before!" Crowley exclaimed.

"Crowley, do you have any idea how creepy is it to just stare at someone?" asked Beelzebub.

"Shhh…" Crowley held a finger up to his lips, "He's checking his phone."

"Stop. Looking. At. Him." Beelzebub clapped at him. 

Crowley expression changed. "Oh, it's obviously bad news. He's…" Crowley watched at the blond man gently pushed past a group of people standing next to the door out.

Crowley pushed his chair back, and shimmied out of it.

"Where are you going?" Dagon asked.

Crowley grabbed his wineglass and downed it in one. "I'm about to go see a man about a cigarette."

"What about Hastur's gig?" Beelzebub said.

"Hastur can take a long walk off a short pier," Crowley replied with a grin," See you back at the flat tomorrow!" And with a movement that would have put a contortionist to shame, he twisted around three different groups of people and was lost in the crowd.

* * *

_ Thirty minutes later. _

Crowley, not for the first time, was regretting not choosing more sensible footwear. The snakeskin shoes made him feel very attractive, but they pinched his feet and were definitely not waterproof. His socks were soaked through from the sudden rainstorm. 

So, here he was, half-limping through the rain with the man he'd been admiring in the pub, and now on his way to relationship counseling with him. As you do. Crowley would have been cursing himself, if he wasn't elated by getting to be in the presence of this adorable, cherubic figure.

Crowley had learned a little about the man on their walk to the therapist's office. He was an antiquarian bookseller, who kept a shop in Soho. Most of his work was restoring books, but occasionally he would sell one, if he absolutely had to. He was named after the angel of music, and his name was...was…

"Ah-zir-ra-phale" the man said again, slower.

"Azeerafane?" Crowley replied back, hopefully.

"No, no, Aziraphale."

"Azzie-ra-fill?"

"Ah-zir-ra-phale." Aziraphale stopped and gestured as he said meekly "It rhymes with ‘a clearer pail’."

"Or a giant snail."

Aziraphale laughed. "Or a bowl of kale."

"Azeerefale?" Crowley tried to focus on how the name was constructed, but as soon as he felt comfortable with one syllable, the others would float just out of reach. He sighed at his own stupidity and scratching the back of his neck asked, "Err, um, do you have any nicknames I can use?"

"I'm afraid not."

"So even your boyfriend calls you by that big long name?"

"Yes, he does."

"Oh." Crowley stopped for a moment. "That's incredibly formal. No wonder you're in relationship counseling. Do you have to send him a formal invitation when you want to fuck?"

Aziraphale went quiet. Crowley had clearly hit a nerve. Aziraphale gripped the handle of the umbrella, and with a dark look in his eyes, muttered, "We don't have nicknames. We're not children."

Crowley felt panic flush through him like a spicy curry. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, it's just that I'm… I'm not going to be able to manage that just yet. Can I call you Angel?"

The man was silent for a moment, the world silent except for the heavy  _ thud thud thud _ of raindrops hitting the umbrella above both of them. 

"Angel?" asked Aziraphale, suspiciously.

"Angel." Crowley replied hopefully.

"Angel?" Aziraphale asked, again. 

"Angel." Crowley repeated. 

"Angel?" Aziraphale said again, testing how the syllables of the word felt in his mouth.

"Angel." Said Crowley, nodding. 

_ Thud thud thud _ .

Aziraphale looked at his shoes, trying to decide what expression his face should make. Then, looking back up at Crowley, he smiled, eyes twinkling. "Yes, I...I rather like that. Yes, you can."

Crowley felt his heart leap into his throat, and settle back down into his chest. Then, trying to keep it as casual as he possibly could, said "Thanks, Angel."

They walked half a street further before Aziraphale came to another stop.

"Well, we're here," said Aziraphale, nervously rocking on his heels.

"Yep." 

_ Thud thud thud _

"Do you still… Want to?"

"Of course. This is my sort of thing."

"Going to therapy with strangers?"

"No, no,” Crowley paused before he explained, “ 'ma journalist. I like stories. And this will be quite a story."

* * *

The first half of the session was dull. The therapist droned about confidentiality, when she might need to break confidentiality (“If either of you were in danger of harming yourselves, or others”), the fact she couldn’t diagnose mental health disorders or prescribe medicine, or, it seemed to Crowley, do much more than act as a referee. 

As she finished up about her therapeutic method, she sat with her hands on her lap, in a distractingly calm fashion. "...So, first of all, thank you both for coming this evening. Is this your first time doing couple's therapy?" The therapist's hands sat on her lap,

"Yes," replied Aziraphale, in a reverential whisper.

Crowley, who had melted with boredom during her speech, tried to sit up. "Yup. First time for me."

"Okay, that's good to know. I am here to create a safe and neutral space for you and your partner to explore your relationship. But so I can help you, I do need to know what the issues are. Which one of you wants to start?"

Crowley managed to push himself up on his elbows and fell into an approximation of an upright position. "You've got to help me doc--"

"--I'm not a doctor--"

"--I feel like Angel is a stranger to me."

Aziraphale bit his lip to hide his laughter.

"Okay, that's a big problem. Why do you feel like he's a stranger to you?"

"I feel… Like he knows nothing about me. He asked me what I did for a living on the way over!"

"Dear boy," Aziraphale interjected, "I asked you that because you say that you're a journalist, but you haven't shown me any projects you've worked on--"

"Azrafell, please, let Anthony finish--"

"--Oh, I'm sorry--"

Crowley jumped back in, "I feel like he doesn't really know me."

"How long have you been in a relationship?"

Crowley looked to Aziraphale. Aziraphale, without taking his eyes off him, said, "Two years." 

Crowley combined a nod of agreement with a grunt. "Yeah, two years."

"So, how did you meet?"

"In the pub," Crowley said.

"We met in the pub when he approached me," Aziraphale added, "He asked me what I was doing that night, and, well,  _ here we are _ ."

"So did you know each other already?"

"No, no, spur of the moment thing," Crowley replied, "I saw him, and though,  _ oh, that's a person I'd like to get to know _ ."

"That's very sweet of you," Aziraphale cooed back.

"Well, I was right. I do want to get to know you."

"And Azeephil, how did you feel when he approached you?"

"Aziraphale," Aziraphale corrected, "and...Oh...err...um...I...I don't know."

"You don't know!" Crowley exclaimed with a wide grin.

"Please, Anthony, let Erzafell answer." The therapist turned to Aziraphale, "You say you don't know how you felt. That's very interesting."

"Aziraphale," Aziraphale corrected again, "And, well... it's a very difficult question, isn't it?"

The therapist leaned forward with practised empathy. "Do you find emotions difficult, Israpuul?"

"Az-zir-ra-phale," he said with a sigh, "And I don't know. I...I suppose I do."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know...I feel that Crowley may think less of me if he knows how I felt."

"Why would I judge you?" Crowley snapped.

"Anthony, please, let Israpell speak."

"Az-zir-ra-phale," Aziraphale said again, trying to keep his calm, "it's pronounced Aziraphale."

"To rhyme with 'A clearer pail'" Crowley added helpfully.

"Or 'A fear of hail'"

"Or 'a giant snail' "

"Yes, or that," Aziraphale bristled.

"Az-zir-ra-phale," said the therapist, "thank you for correcting me. I hope I can make you feel more comfortable."

"Absolutely fine, my dear."

"Now, Az-zir-ra-phale, you were saying that you felt like Anthony would judge the emotions that you had when you met."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale blushed hard.

"Why do you think that is?"

"Oh, oh dear…" Aziraphale looked down at his lap, and started pulling on his waistcoat, "Well, I'm… they were very silly."

"So?" Crowley tried to bounce, not helped by the under-stuffed armchair.

"So, if you share your emotions with us, and Anthony finds them silly, what are you scared might happen?"

Aziraphale was hunted over in his seat with the effort of keeping his hands still. His foot tapped instead. "That Anthony would think less of me."

"I want to get to know you better, Angel, especially the silly bits. I think those are likely to be the best bits."

Aziraphale forced a tight smile into his face. 

The therapist leaned forward, dramatically. "So, it sounds like Anthony is desperate for a connection with you, but that you don't feel comfortable opening up. Does that sound fair?"

Crowley and Aziraphale looked each other in the eye, and nodded in agreement.

"So, Az-zir-ra-phale, I have a big question for you; what would you like to get from these sessions?"

"I booked these sessions because I want to improve our relationship."

There was a moment of silence. The therapist composed herself and said, "What would an improvement to your relationship look like, to you?"

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment. "Oh, I don't know."

There was another, uncomfortable pause.

"Okay, I'm going to ask a different question. What does a good relationship look like to you?"

Aziraphale pushed down on his hands in his lap. "Oh, I'm not sure. I think...I think it's two people who care a lot about each other, and understand each other very well."

The therapist smiled. "That's very interesting. When you say they should understand each other very well, what do you mean by that?"

Aziraphale looked to Crowley for support. 

Crowley coughed and said, "I think he means that they should be interested in who the other person is. That they can still fight, and snap at each other, and act badly, but at the end of the day they still think of that person as the person they love."

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, eyes shining again, and said softly, "...And they  _ like  _ them. Even when they do things they don't like."

"Yeah," Crowley nodded, and reached out to touch Aziraphale's hand. 

The therapist checked her notes. "So, earlier this session, you said you think Crowley is judgemental of you. Can you give me an example of how he judges you?"

Aziraphale thought for a moment, searching for something he could say. "He thinks I'm too formal. Too stuffy."

"Anthony, do you feel like that?"

"Yes. Kinda. I mean, it's not always a bad thing. I like the way he dresses, I think it shows how much his own person he is, but...a lot of formal stuff was stuff made up to push people like us down."

"People like us?" Asked Aziraphale.

"Queers."

Aziraphale winced at the word. 

The therapist stepped in. "Az-zir-ra-phale, I see that word makes you uncomfortable. Can you tell us why?"

"Well...umm...err... it's a word that was used about me at school. And not in a kindly way. And, well, it's never sat well with me."

Crowley turned to Aziraphale. "I'm sorry. I should have thought. I'm just used to using it about myself. But you see my point, don't you? A lot of that stuff was made up as a way of excluding people like us, or people of colour, or poor people. I mean, I talk about stuff like that on my podcast…"

"...you have a podcast?"

"Yeah, I do. It's a history podcast."

"Really? You never told me."

"It never came up!"

"Gentlemen," the therapist interrupted, "We're coming to the end of this session now. And I think I still have some more unpacking to do. But I do want to give you both some homework."

Aziraphale and Crowley nodded in unison.

"Good. Now, it sounds like there is a lack of real communication, here. So, I'm going to ask you both to do some listening. Az-zir-ra-phale, I want you to listen to Anthony's podcast this week. You don't need to take notes, but listen to what he's trying to do with it."

Aziraphale nodded. 

"And Anthony - I want you to set aside some quality time with Az-zir-ra-phale, and try your best not to interrupt him when he talks. Ask questions. Maybe think of it as an interview."

"Maybe dinner?" Crowley said, thoughtfully.

"Yes. I think a quiet, intimate dinner for two would be very good." She smiled.

"Well, thank you for your time, doc," Crowley stood up in a way which was surprisingly inefficient, "See you next week. C'mon Angel."

They left, and once they were a street away, Crowley burst out laughing. "That was hilarious!"

Aziraphale chuckled, "I have never done anything like that in my life!"

"Are you sure? You were a great scene partner!"

"Oh, no, I wasn't."

"You were! I mean, you need a bit of practice, but considering we went in with no prep!”

They both stopped walking. 

"Well, erm, I should probably go home now," Aziraphale said, making absolutely no effort to move. 

"Yeah, so should I," replied Crowley, rooted to the ground. 

They both looked at each other expectantly. Neither of them moved. 

Finally, Aziraphale spoke. "My shop isn't far from here. If you would like, I have a lovely bottle of  Châteauneuf-du-Pape I've been saving."

"Saving for what?"

"A visitor, I suppose?"

They looked at each other, waiting for the other to crack. Aziraphale searched Crowley's face for a sign of disgust or disapproval. 

Instead, Crowley's face lit up with barely disguised elation. "Lead the way, Angel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool.
> 
> I'm also over at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bouncygin, so come and say hi! I mostly re-blog, but I will experiment with real posts soon


	3. Chapter 3

The bookshop door creaked open loudly as Aziraphale stepped through, and with practised ease found the light switch by touch.

The lights blinked and moaned as they turned on one by one, filling the shop with a barely perceptible hum. 

"Let there be light," he said, amused at his own joke.

Crowley stepped in behind him, staring at...everything. 

"Please forgive the state of the place, I've been re-arranging the shop." Aziraphale shoved a box of Jeffrey Archers to one side with his foot.

Crowley was overwhelmed. He moved slowly, as if in a dream, trying to take in the shelves upon shelves upon shelves of books. 

"Woah, you weren't joking about your collection," Crowley found himself saying, almost knocking over a pile of Dickens.

"It's quite eclectic, I know," said Aziraphale, casually reshelving a book in some arcane order that only he understood, "But the really valuable ones are further back." He led Crowley through the backroom to an elegantly distressed Chesterfield sofa, grabbing a rather dusty bottle from a cabinet in the top left corner. 

Crowley settled on the sofa as Aziraphale came over with a corkscrew and a pair of wine glasses. Soon the wine was flowing, and Aziraphale had sunk into the armchair, examining his glass with an almost religious fervour. 

After the first mouthful of wine, Crowley said, "This place is fantastic. Do you own it?"

"Yes," said Aziraphale, shifting in his chair, "I inherited it from my grandfather."

"Woah. So, is this collection his, then?"

"Some of it, yes. I've added to it since."

Crowley drank from his wine glass, hiding his expression. "I'm very jealous. I wish I had this many books. I subscribe to a few journal services, but there's nothing quite like the feeling of paper turning under your fingers, y'know?"

"I certainly agree with that. It's part of why I love restoration work. I love how the pages feel beneath my fingers, the smell of the old glue and paper, the  _ preciseness _ of it all. It feels very, how should I put it,  _ honest _ ."

"Honest?" said Crowley, the question mark dangling from the word.

"Honest," Aziraphale repeated, "Why, do you not like that word?"

"No, no, nothing like that!” Crowley took another sip, “ I mean, I think I understand. It's craftsmanship. No alternative motives, or hustle, or proving anything or weird politics. It’s just doing a job with a clear start and finish. Work that doesn't leave you feeling tainted. Honest work."

Aziraphale shifted in his chair again, feeling uncomfortably seen. 

"I'll tell you what's honest. This wine. This wine is very, very good." Crowley finished his glass, and reached for the bottle. 

Aziraphale got there first, and refilled Crowley's glass for him with a satisfying series of glugs. 

"I'm glad you like it. I don't often get to share a bottle, my boyfr... Gabriel doesn't like drinking."

Crowley almost choked on his wine. "Doesn't sound very fun "

"Oh, he is, he is," Aziraphale said, trying to think of an argument, "but… He's very committed to his wellness routine."

"And you?"

"Me?" Aziraphale looked down at himself and laughed. "Do I look like someone who has a wellness routine?"

Crowley's face twitched with panic as he quickly re-arranged himself. "He doesn't know what he's missing," he muttered into his glass, "This is a very good vintage. Full bodied."

Aziraphale, oblivious, filled up his own glass. "I would say it's very fruity. With a warm spice to it."

Crowley curled his legs up in front of him. "Yes, yes, I like that."

"Oh, I forgot how good it is," Aziraphale let out a small moan of pleasure that made Crowley's spine tingle. "Tomorrow, I will be back on the diet, but tonight…" he held his glass up and said, "To therapy with a man I have never met before."

Crowley clinked his glass against Aziraphale's. "To one of the strangest evenings I've had!" 

They drank in silence for a moment. "So, the therapist said I should listen to your podcast. What's it called?"

"The Catalogue of Evil."

Aziraphale was clearly unimpressed, but did his best impression of someone who was compelled. "Oh, very good. Catalogue of Evil. And what's it about?"

"The malefic, the depraved, the cold-hearted, those bathed in the blood of innocents. That sort of thing."

"Err…I'm afraid that you've lost me, Crowley.”

"Okay," Crowley took a drink from his glass, and gesticulated wildly as he spoke, "So, the podcast, the podcast is, like, about bad people. The worst people. All through history. But to be honest, we tend to have the best sources for stuff in the last two hundred years." Aziraphale listened as he watched the wine in Crowley's glass slop from one side to another. "So, we put it all together, so it's easier to understand how we ended up here. I mean, how we ended up in this world. Like, how we ended up with one hundred and forty companies controlling forty percent of the global economy, why we're being encouraged to ignore climate change, why people put pineapple on pizza!"

Aziraphale took a long drink from his glass and decided to change the subject. "So, who listens to this podcast?"

"All sorts. People all around the world."

"Perhaps I was a little unclear; who is it aimed at?"

Crowley cocked his head, and scratched it with his free hand. "I'm not sure. I think people who want to know more about history, mainly."

Aziraphale smiled. "So, it's a document of the depravity of history."

Crowley pointed at Aziraphale excitedly. "Exactly! Exactly! That's why it's a catalogue of evil. I usually focus on a single person, but sometimes I cover a company, or an invention, or a popular movement. Like the Living Enders. Depends what's caught my eye at the time."

"The Living Enders?

"Oh, they're an online group of right wing idiots who believe that there is an inevitable societal collapse coming because queer people, people of colour and women are too uppity."

"Oh, right." Aziraphale tried to sound like he understood.

"It's okay. It's an offshoot of 'chan culture, so unless you're extremely online you won't have come across them. But I've been hearing from friends in the states that they're starting to turn up at protests to cause trouble."

"Oh." Aziraphale paused for more wine. "Is that what you are covering next?"

"No, not yet. I'm still pitching an article about them to different websites, but have you ever heard of Gregor MacGregor?"

Aziraphale spluttered into his glass and giggled. "You mean...that charlatan who claimed to have a country in Central America?"

"Yup! And not only that, he was an awful person in general."

"Well, you must tell me more."

  
  


**_01:00 am_ **

"...So after being dismissed from his regiment a full year before the Battle of Albuera, he still used that fact that he was part of the 57th Regiment of Foot to gain traction in London society."

"Whilst I despise stolen valour, it was hardly like anyone could have checked him at the time."  Aziraphale opened another bottle of wine with a hard  _ pop _ , "Did you know that in the army they're known as 'Walts', after Walter Mitty?"

  
  


**_01:30 am_ **

Aziraphale sat up in his chair as he exclaimed, "I really don't believe that those work as captions for  _ every _ New Yorker cartoon!"

Crowley pulled a face of disbelief. “Err, yes they do.”

"Dear boy, I am quite sure that there was never an Addams Family cartoon with the caption, 'Christ, what an asshole' or 'I'd like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn.'"

"Yes, but there should have been!" Crowley was now sitting on the arm of the sofa, waving his glass in the air.

"Be careful!" Aziraphale chastised,"You almost hit the sword up there!"

  
  
  
  
  


**_02:00 am_ **

  
  
  


_ "So _ what exactly is your point?"

Crowley, who had been sitting upside down for some time, scrambled like a beetle trying to right itself. "My point is--My point is, dolphins. That's my point," Crowley felt for the third bottle of wine, found it, and took a swig. "Big brains, the size of...damn big brains. Not to mention the whales. Brain city, whales."

"Kraken. Ooh, great, big bugger." Aziraphale said, taking a rather indelicate swig from his glass.

Crowley lay down on the sofa, moving like a clockwork toy winding down. "Whole sea…" he yawned, and rested his head on his arms, "... Whole sea bubbling," Crowley closed his eyes, and mumbled, "The dolphins...the whales…" there was another yawn. Crowley, struggling, softly babbled, "Everything turning into bouillab--Bouill-bouillab--Bouillab…"

Aziraphale patiently waited for Crowley to finish his sentence, but after a very loud snore, realised that he was asleep. 

Aziraphale stood up slowly, steadying himself on his armchair. Once he was certain he had enough control over his legs, he stumbled towards the couch and pulled the blanket draped over the back on to Crowley, trying to make sure that it covered him as much as possible. 

Then he went to the kitchenette and returned with two glasses of water and a blister pack of painkillers. He placed a glass next to the sofa, with the painkillers, and settled back in his armchair with a book. Before long, he had fallen asleep as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please throw a comment to your humble fic writer if you can. If not, we cool.
> 
> I'm also over at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bouncygin, so come and say hi! I mostly re-blog, but I will experiment with real posts soon


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